


Catching Up With The Joneses

by cygnes



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Scream (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Family Secrets, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 01:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: Jughead gives Betty a book, which prompts her to investigate, which prompts Veronica to investigate. All of which prompts Jughead to talk about some family history he'd rather leave buried.





	1. Plucky Girl Detective

**Author's Note:**

> This fic starts during the events of episode 7 and diverges from there. I had meant to post it during the hiatus, but life intervened.
> 
> Betty and Jughead are together in this fic, and both are attracted to each other as well as to other people. I think my ideal relationship scenario would be for all four of these nice teens to kiss each other, but romance isn't the focus of this fic, so I didn't choose to pursue that dynamic further than hinting at attractions to be explored in the characters' future.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead gives Betty a book; Betty makes some connections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With deep apologies to the real hosts of _My Favorite Murder_ , which is a podcast I enjoy a lot.

Jughead is a mystery unto himself. Betty should have realized sooner, and she knows it.

The book isn’t the first clue he’s given her, but it’s the first he _literally_ gives her. He puts it into her hands in a quiet moment between classes. It’s a hardcover, and the dust jacket is in pretty rough shape, held together by painstakingly applied Scotch tape. But none of the pages are dog-eared or written on. That’s what tells her this book is important. Jughead is hard on books, even when they don’t belong to him. His library fines probably rival his tab at Pop’s; the inside of _Out of Darkness_ is pristine.

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now,” Jughead says. “And if you don’t have time to read this, or you don’t want to, I won’t be offended.”

“I’ll make time,” Betty says.

“It’s just helped me through some tough times,” Jughead says. His eyes slide away from her face, back down to the book. “Experience isn’t universal, but—”

“Thank you,” Betty says. She goes on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek; he still won’t look her in the eye.

She spends study hall reading the book. She starts with the text itself. It’s pretty typical trauma-recovery stuff, the kind of book that makes bestseller lists because of a combination of hope and the voyeuristic perspective on someone else’s suffering that appeals to middle-aged suburban moms who have never really suffered at all. The kind of book that lets you feel compassionate without actually having to take any action to help anyone. There’s something a little raw about it that’s appealing, though. Sidney Prescott is present in the text. Her voice and perspective haven’t been ghost-written out of existence.

The book isn’t going to give Betty the right answers unless she looks in the right place, though. She flips back to look at the publication information and finds something else, something she can’t believe she missed when she skipped ahead to the preface: it’s a signed copy. First edition, 2011. Jughead might have gotten it on eBay, but that doesn’t fit with the condition of the book. No self-respecting used book dealer would sell a signed copy with such a tattered dust jacket, since that could be easily replaced, and the book itself is still in fairly good condition. This is something Jughead has been holding onto for a long time. Maybe since he was nine or ten. There’s a true crime angle in _Out of Darkness_ that could even have planted the seeds of his current interest in the subject.

She’s still missing something, and she knows it. But that will have to wait until things with her sister are more under control.

* * *

“I don’t want to be a scapegoat,” Jughead says to her at the sheriff’s office. “And that’s what’s going to happen. With a juvie record, and who I’m related to—” There’s something wild in his eyes. As far as Betty knows, FP’s criminal history is strictly small-time and definitely not murderous. He’s talking about something else.

She doesn’t think about it too much until after Polly is settled in with Veronica and her mom. She goes back home, tells her parents she was out at Pop’s for a milkshake (technically not a lie), and does what she does most nights. She looks out her window. There’s a light on in Archie’s room. Not the overhead light, but the lamp. She can see Jughead with Archie’s guitar. Him and the shadows and not much else.

Betty almost texts him. She wants to ask how he’s doing, if he needs anything, but the best way to help him wouldn’t be to ask. He’d only say he’s fine. He’s been saying that for weeks, and he hasn’t been. She knows that now. She could text Archie, who must be nearby (maybe just outside of where the lamp’s light reaches), but that feels like it would be crossing a line. Jughead will just pull back further if he feels like they’re conspiring against him, even if it’s a benevolent conspiracy, and that would leave the three of them almost where they were at the end of summer. Three people who are friends more in name than in deed, worrying about each other and longing for each other but not feeling entitled to reach out.

So she draws the curtains instead. Discretion is sometimes the better part of valor. She gets out her laptop and Googles ‘sidney prescott out of darkness.’

_Out of Darkness_ leads her to _The Woodsboro Murders_ by Gale Weathers, which leads her to Wes Craven’s _Stab_ franchise. She spends a few minutes reading movie trivia before deciding to backtrack. Maybe _Stab_ was where it started—who hasn’t seen the original movie in this day and age, or at least one of the crappy sequels that show up all the time on basic cable? But _Stab_ isn’t what matters to Jughead, even though he’s an avowed cinephile. It’s something about Sidney Prescott.

Betty reads a few more chapters of the book. It’s less about the multiple attempts on the author’s life and more about learning to live with how they changed her. There’s stuff about denial, repression, isolation—how it’s easier to cut people off, but that maintaining or establishing good relationships is crucial.

_Isn’t this what, you know, what people like us… who’ve gone through what we’ve gone through... do?_ Jughead’s fingers had been laced through hers, but they flexed uneasily when he said that.

Investigative reporting isn’t all about research. Sometimes it’s about knowing the right question to ask. Sometimes it’s knowing how to imply you know more than you do.

* * *

She takes him aside at school in the morning. She holds his hand and his gaze, putting some extra firmness in her grip and earnestness in her expression.

“Juggie, we need to talk.” He looks tired, resigned, like he was expecting this.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t have started this in the first place. Investigating stuff like this—stuff that’s personal—is emotionally intense, and I guess I got caught up in that. I was trying to be supportive, but if I’m just giving you something else to worry about, I’ll back off.”

“That’s not it,” Betty says.

“You see it all the time in fiction, right?” Jughead barrels ahead. “All those crime procedurals with male-female partnerships banking on the will-they-won’t-they for ratings. Even _True Detective_ gets weirdly intimate, even if it doesn’t get sexual, maybe because it’s two men really entrenched in toxic masculinity.” He’s steering the conversation away from them, back toward things he knows how to talk about.

“I don’t want to break up,” Betty says. That does stop him.

“Are we together enough that it would count as breaking up?” he says, more curious than accusatory.

“ _Yes_ ,” Betty says. She squeezes his hand. He doesn’t relax, but he almost smiles. “Let’s just figure it out as we go, okay?”

“I don’t want to get your expectations up,” he says. “About what I can offer you, or. Anything like that.” He’s talking about something different than she is, or rather, talking around something he’s not ready to say outright. Layers upon layers of mystery.

“I’m not worried about it,” Betty assures him. “I wanted to talk to you about Woodsboro.” She’s glad they’re holding hands, because she thinks he might have bolted otherwise. He suddenly has the look of a cornered animal.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d figure it out,” he says. “Subconsciously, or something.”

“I don’t know if I have figured it out,” she admits, which isn’t a good interview tactic but he looks _scared_ and she doesn’t ever want him to be scared of her, or because of her.

“The school library has a copy of _The Woodsboro Murders_ ,” he says. His hand slips out of hers and she lets it go. “You’ll get it within the first twenty pages. And if it makes you reconsider this—us—” He gestures to the space between them. “I won’t blame you.” He turns his back on her and has ducked around a corner before she can call after him.

* * *

Veronica helps her connect the dots before she gets to page fifteen, though they take a little detour to get there.

“Oh my god, kickin’ it old-school with Gale Weathers!” she exclaims, when she sees the book Betty’s holding. She drops into the chair across from Betty in the student lounge. It’s study hall for Betty; Veronica might be cutting her honors psychology class. “I used to love that book. I mean, it’s an inferior Ann Rule knockoff, and it’s a product of its time, but it’s _so_ juicy.”

“Jughead recommended it,” Betty says. She tries to sound cheerfully neutral. Veronica takes it the wrong way.

“Don’t change yourself for your man,” she says. “This is the twenty-first century. _He_ should be pursuing _your_ interests.”

“It’s more of a mutual interest,” Betty says. Again, technically not a lie. “You know. Investigative journalism.”

“Right, right.” Veronica takes a sip of her latte, which definitely came from off-campus. “Sorry to get judgy. I just want the best for my best girl, you know? Anyway, if you get into it, I have a _ton_ of true crime recs. Literary, informal, whatever. Do you listen to podcasts?”

“Like _Serial_?” Betty says. Veronica smiles, almost smirks, and shakes her head.

“You’re so mainstream. You’ve got to try _My Favorite Murder_. It’s just these two ladies—enthusiasts, not experts—talking about crimes. Mostly murder, duh, but they talk about a real variety of stuff. I think they covered the Woodsboro killings, actually. I can look up the episode.” She has her phone out already, latte forgotten. “Yep, here it is. I’ll text you the link. Or, better yet, we can start listening to it at lunch.” Veronica’s smile has turned distinctly conspiratorial.

“Sure,” Betty says, forcing herself to smile back. Under other circumstances, she wouldn’t have to make an effort, but she’s uneasy. “That would be great.”

And it is great, actually. Better than Betty expected, given how much she has on her mind. They sit side-by-side on one of the couches in the lounge. It’s pretty crowded, since it’s a lunch period, which is an excuse to sit closer: touching at the knees, hips. Veronica has an arm over the back of the couch. Practically (though not literally) around her shoulders. She’s one of the only girls Betty knows who wears perfume. Cheryl does, of course: something floral and weirdly mature. Probably her mom’s perfume. Betty knows the smell because it fills the locker room after cheerleading practice. But Veronica’s perfume is sharper, brighter—citrus, if Betty had to guess, though she doesn’t know a lot about perfume. It’s nice.

“We’ve both had so much going on that we haven’t really had time to hang out,” Veronica says. She passes Betty an earbud. The whole thing is weirdly intimate, but not uncomfortable. It should be uncomfortable, Betty thinks. Not because Veronica’s a girl, but because Betty’s sort-of-dating Jughead, and she likes it. She likes _him_.

This isn’t the time to get distracted. She tries to tune out the sound of the people around them and focus on the podcast. Some of it is a little silly, but the conversational tone is easy to listen to.

_“...like a layer cake of fucked-up shit.”_

_“Or maybe, like… a mille-feuille.”_

_“A what?”_

_“It’s a little thing made with pastry cream and puff pastry. I just said that because it has even more layers.”_

_“Oh, right, you know all that dessert stuff from your secret double life as a food show personality.”_

They don’t shy away from the facts, though. In 1996, high school students William Edward Loomis and Stuart Brendan Macher brutally killed six people and tried to kill several more. They also talk specifically about _The Woodsboro Murders_ by Gale Weathers. The hosts are both from California and remember watching the author as a reporter on _Top Story_ before the murders, and when the murders happened, and when the book came out. It was a media frenzy, apparently, especially when it came to the killers.

_“I remember seeing their pictures in the paper, and in her book, and thinking ‘this looks like every guy I’ve ever dated’.”_

_“Oh, totally. Just your average teenage dirtbags, except they killed a whole bunch of people.”_

_“So the moral of the story is: don’t date anyone, ever.”_

_“At least not until you’re twenty-five!”_

_“Right, right. No teenage dating.”_

_“You hear that, teens? Stay at home! Read a book!”_

_“Watch Netflix. But don’t ‘Netflix and chill:’ even I know what that means, and I’m very, very old.”_

Veronica nudges Betty in the side until she looks over and then rolls her eyes. Betty shrugs, smiles. She doesn’t take it personally. Veronica pauses the podcast.

“Do you still have the book? I want to take a look at those guys. Loomis and Macher. It’s been a while since I read it, so I don’t have a solid mental image.”

Betty pulls the book out of her bag and flips through it. There, on page eighteen—just a few pages past her bookmark—are some snapshots of the killers. Something about Loomis is familiar. Veronica places it first.

“He looks so much like this guy I’ve seen around town.” Veronica taps the grainy monochrome print. “One of the Southside Serpents? I swear, do a little age progression on Loomis, and they could be brothers.”

Betty looks hard at the picture. A young man, with a deceptively carefree smile and a certain hardness around the eyes. The resemblance takes her longer to place, with Veronica’s added information, but when she does—well. It makes sense that FP would be with the Serpents, given the fact that he didn’t have any legal employment up until recently. That has to be part of the connection. Jughead said she’d get it by page twenty.

“Ronnie, I have to go,” Betty says. “I’m sorry, I can fill you in later, but right now—”

“I get it,” Veronica says, winding up the cord on her headphones to put them away. “No worries.” She says it like she’s trying not to show that she’s upset or offended (or maybe jealous). She’s trying to do right by Betty. “Just keep me posted, okay? I’ll see you at practice.”

Jughead is in the room they use for editing the Blue & Gold.

“What’s the news, girl detective?” he says. His tone isn’t light enough or ironic enough to make it sound like a joke.

“How are you related to him?” Betty asks. There’s no use skirting around the issue. She doesn’t need to be more specific than that. He knows that she knows.

“Dad’s cousin,” Jughead says. “Dad used to spend most summers out on the West Coast because that side of the family was better off financially. They’d set him up with a job out there to make money, let him stay with them until school started up again, no big deal. He saw a lot of Billy in the summer up until he graduated high school and started working full time.” Jughead pushes himself out of the chair he was sitting in. “They’d stopped seeing each other so much by the time it happened. He’s three or four years older than Billy was. I don’t remember exactly.”

Betty’s almost sure he’s lying about that. She’d bet good money that Jughead has the Woodsboro case memorized inside and out, to say nothing of his personal connections to it. She doesn’t push him on this, though. It must be hard enough already.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why?” Jughead says. He ducks his head and looks over at her through his bangs. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

“I just know it’s hard for you,” she says. “That’s all.”

“It happened before I was born,” he says. “It shouldn’t be hard for me.”

“But it is,” Betty says. She takes a few cautious steps toward him. He has that cornered animal look again, and she doesn’t want him to feel like he has to run from her. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but I’m here if you do.” He closes his eyes and exhales hard. It’s less than a sigh, just barely. He looks tired.

“Thanks,” he says. And then: “I should go.”

She lets him. She doesn’t know what else to do.


	2. Femme Fatale Investigates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica, worried about Betty, does some sleuthing of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Riverdale_ has not yet given us the Kevin Keller we deserve (i.e. an overachieving weirdo), so I gave it my best effort.

Something’s up with Betty and Jughead. It doesn’t take Nancy Drew or even Jessica Fletcher to figure that out. Veronica wants to know what it is. She wants to know because she cares about Betty, and she wants to know because she cares about Archie, who’s also close to Betty. (It’s not that she specifically dislikes Jughead—she just doesn’t know him well enough to make him a priority.) Why she wants to know matters less than the fact that she does want it, though. Veronica Lodge gets what she wants. She considers it one of her defining traits.

Occam’s Razor dictates her first move: the simplest solution is the best. So when she sees Jughead skulking down the hallway after the last bell, she steps out in front of him, suddenly enough that he has to stop instead of swerve around her.

“Jughead,” she says, more statement than greeting.

“Veronica,” he says. He’s cautious, even a little spooked. She’s glad he’s off his game.

“I’m on my way to practice, but I just had to ask.” Veronica has a full arsenal of smiles, each with its own particular shade of meaning. The one she turns on him now is a friendly warning. “Betty said you recommended _The Woodsboro Murders_ to her. Are you a Gale Weathers fan?”

“I specifically liked that book,” he says. “I don’t think her later work lived up to it. She was trying too hard to repeat a formula for success. Real life doesn’t always fit a formula.”

“I totally agree,” Veronica says. She means it, too. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be into even one of her books, though. You seem like a strictly Truman Capote or Erik Larson type.”

“What, not liking recent events or not liking female true crime authors?” he says. She can see the beginning of a scowl hovering around the edges of his mouth.

“Either,” she says. “But I stand corrected.”

“I didn’t know you liked true crime at all,” he says, wary and maybe suspicious but still not all the way to scowling. Good.

“Oh, absolutely. Give me a Kate Summerscale book any day of the week and I’m a happy camper,” she says. “I started Betty on _My Favorite Murder_ today. We listened to some of the Woodsboro episode.” He starts to step around her and she lets him.

She’s learned something, at least. The common elements in what got him to start talking, and what got him to walk away, are the same: Betty and Woodsboro. It could be just one of the two; Veronica would bet it’s both. Something in Betty’s expression had closed off when they were looking at those pictures of the Woodsboro killers. She had run off right after—probably to find Jughead. It could be something connected to their junior sleuthing or some research for an article for the Blue & Gold, but that seems less likely than something personal.

Veronica puts those thoughts aside during cheer practice. The best part of cheerleading is that it gives her a single thing to focus on, concrete and specific. The simplest and most basic kind of self-control. She has to be aware of her body, and the bodies of people around her. The signals she has to read there aren’t tiny and hidden. Betty’s not as on top of her game as she usually is. Neither is Cheryl. No one comments on it. There’s no need. That’s simple, too. It has an easy explanation supplied by common knowledge. It’s not a mystery, like everything else in this damn town seems to be.

After practice, she doesn’t ask Betty about it. Betty has too much to deal with already. Veronica only realizes that she’s staring when Betty stares back.

“Sorry,” Betty says, smoothing a hand back over her (pristine) hair. “Am I a mess?”

“Not even close, B,” Veronica says. “You’re a vision.”

“Get a room,” Cheryl says snidely.

“Get a life!” Veronica snaps back. Betty turns away from them both. They go their separate ways after they change. Betty seems downcast, but Veronica doesn’t ask. She has a plan to put in motion.

* * *

Here’s the thing: Betty’s not a damsel or a wilting flower or damaged goods. Sure, she’s kind of messed up, but she can handle herself when she needs to. It’s not about Betty needing Veronica’s help. It’s about Veronica wanting to help her.

She explains as much to Archie after football practice lets out. She waits for him, leads him to one of the outdoor tables, and makes some careful implications. He still seems perplexed. Worse, he’s giving her his biggest, saddest eyes.

“If Betty and Jughead are having problems, shouldn’t we wait until they want to talk about it?”

“Archiekins, you know I love you, but they’ve been off on their own playing Sammy Keyes and Sam Spade for long enough that I don’t think they’re going to call in outside help until somebody’s in the hospital,” she says. Some alarm creeps into his big, sad eyes. “Not that I think it’ll come to that—”

“But there’s a lot they haven’t been telling us.” He looks away, considering. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but…”

“But what?” Veronica says.

“Jughead didn’t have anywhere to live for a while.” This isn’t the kind of secret she was expecting. “He’s staying with me now, so he should be fine. I just didn’t know until recently. He didn’t think he could tell me. He thought he had to deal with it on his own.” Archie hunches over the picnic table and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Sorry, it’s all just.” He stops short and doesn’t explain what exactly it is. Veronica doesn’t need him to. “Betty knows, though. I couldn’t keep it from her after we picked him up from the sheriff’s office.”

“Wow,” Veronica says. She can’t think of a single appropriate response. 

“Yeah,” Archie says. He sits back up. He looks tired and a little lost. “So maybe that’s it.”

“Maybe,” Veronica agrees, though she doesn’t think it is. That only connects two of the points: Betty and Jughead. It leaves out the Woodsboro murders.

Or maybe Woodsboro isn’t the third point after all. Betty sat through twenty minutes of _My Favorite Murder_ calmly before needing to dash off. Whatever connection she made only clicked for her when they were looking at that picture of Billy Loomis—and, more specifically, when Veronica mentioned the Southside Serpents.

* * *

Kevin doesn’t look up at her when she sits down across from him at a table in the library.

“To what do I owe the honor?” he says, smiling, but still focused on his laptop.

“What, I can’t hang out with my friends?” Veronica says. He does look over when she says that, amused and faintly disbelieving. Kevin _gets_ her in a weird way, almost like Cheryl does, but with less friction because they’re not in competition. He plays up a certain image of himself because it’s useful to him. Veronica wears her ambition on her sleeve; Kevin pursues his own interests in the background, concealed by a careful smokescreen of pithy comments.

“I could hear you power-walking over here as soon as your heels hit the lobby floor,” he says. “You’re a woman on a mission. So what’s the mission?”

“You seem pretty focused, too. You go first.” It wouldn’t do any good for Veronica to seem too mercenary. She needs to strike a balance between actual friendship and using people as a means to an end. She’s still so used to thinking of people in terms of their usefulness, even when she likes them.

Kevin smiles like he knows what she’s doing. He probably does. “Trying to work out my plan of attack. I’m running for class president.”

“Well, color me impressed!” Veronica says. “I didn’t know you had political ambitions.”

“Today, class president; tomorrow, student body president; then—the world!” He holds up one clenched fist and scowls for a moment before lapsing into a self-deprecating smile. Even pretend supervillainy doesn’t suit him. “I’m the president of like six clubs already. Might as well go all in, right?” This is new territory for him, though, and the joke doesn’t hide that. Large-scale responsibility in full view of potential rivals is nerve-wracking for anyone. The first time around, anyway. But she thinks he could pull it off.

“You have my vote, Mr. Keller,” Veronica says. “And if you need any help with the campaign…” Kevin waves her off.

“No way. I need someone with less drama and more time on their hands. No offense.”

“None taken,” she says. She is a little offended. Just a tiny bit. But Kevin is privy to enough of her life that she can’t say it’s a biased judgment. “Who’s your running mate?”

“I’m still shopping around, but I’m thinking maybe Trev,” he says. “Semi-popular, athletic but not dumb. He could contribute to the platform without taking it over, win me some votes from people who aren’t crazy about me personally.” He shrugs and looks back down at his laptop. “Though I’m open to suggestions.” Veronica has none to offer. He’s too focused on his strategizing to give her questions the consideration they need, so she waits. She watches him type for a couple of minutes before he closes his laptop and folds his arms over it. “Okay, you’ve got my full attention. What’s the sitch, Kim Possible?”

“I want to know about the Southside Serpents,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper. They’ve been talking quietly so far, hoping to avoid the wrath of any passing librarians, but this subject feels like it merits extra caution. Kevin frowns and leans back in his chair.

“And you thought I was the person to ask… why?”

“Uh, because your dad’s the sheriff?” Veronica says, echoing his incredulous tone.

“Has somebody been bothering you?” Kevin says. “I was a little worried after you hassled those guys at the drive-in, but I didn’t think it would go further than that.”

“No,” she says. She has already decided not to mention the meeting she saw between her mom and that shady-looking guy. She doesn’t want any chance of that information getting back to Kevin’s dad. “I’m just worried about someone else.” Kevin leans forward again, elbows on the table, and gestures for her to go on. “Do you know if Jughead has any connection to them?”

“God, I hope not,” Kevin says. “They’d eat him alive.” He rubs one hand across his mouth and looks away. On anyone else, Veronica’s sure this would be an obvious tell—something that says to push more and push harder—but she’s never seen Kevin do this before. Maybe he’s just deep in thought. “It would explain some things, though.”

“Like what?” Veronica says. He doesn’t need much convincing to elaborate.

“Like the fact that he started ditching class a lot last year, and doesn’t look like he’s been getting enough sleep. Not that you’d know, but he used to get really good grades when we were younger. He never even had to try very hard. But when we got to high school last year, he just… dropped off the face of the earth. Like, he’d show up often enough to take tests and get a passing grade, but that was it.” Kevin’s eyes slide away from her again. “And he does live on the south side. _Fuck_.” The last word is more an exhale than something fully voiced. She sees his lips form the word, even if she’s not sure she hears it.

“He’s living with Archie now, actually,” Veronica says. “At least for the time being.”

“Is this something I should tell my dad about?” Kevin says carefully.

“I don’t think either of them would appreciate it if you did,” Veronica says. “Given the fact that your dad was ready to lock Jughead up for Jason’s murder.”

“He’s just feeling the pressure to look like the case is going somewhere when it isn’t,” Kevin says. “He had to at least question him. But if Jughead’s really in trouble, I’m sure he’d try to help.”

“Yeah, well, you know your dad better than I do,” Veronica says. She pushes back her chair and stands up. She’s not going to get any more out of Kevin right now; better to back off and try again when he’s less defensive.

“Hey,” he says just as she turns to leave. “If, hypothetically, I had an inside source with the Serpents, would you want me to ask about Jughead?”

“Hypothetically? Yes,” Veronica says. “Good luck with the campaign strategizing.”

There’s one more person Veronica knows she can ask about this, even if she’d rather not.

* * *

Her mom is more relaxed now after work than she ever was when she was waitressing at Pop’s, but she’s still under strain. Veronica knows most of her mom’s tells. She’s not arrogant enough to think she knows them all, but her mom isn’t trying to hide anything at present. When Veronica gets home, her mom has a glass of wine in one hand. Her smile is tight at the edges. Her eyes are tired.

So when Veronica says “hey, mom, can I talk to you about something?” she knows she might not get any answers. Sensitive information is safer with her mom than it would be in any safe. When pressure is applied, she’s even less likely to crack.

“Of course you can,” Hermione says. She pats the couch cushion next to her. “I know things have been difficult lately, but I never want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

“It’s more something I want to ask you about,” Veronica says.

Her mom tenses a fraction more. “Fire away,” she says.

“That guy I saw you talking to at the drive-in…” Veronica starts. Hermione holds up a hand.

“Veronica, can we please not do this again? I’ve told you everything.” She puts down her glass of wine. Her lips (no longer smiling) press tightly together. This will be the end of the conversation if she doesn’t redirect it.

“No, not about that. You said you knew him in high school, and I was curious. You never really talked about growing up here,” Veronica says.

“Can you blame me? We used to call it Sewerdale.” Hermione laughs, dry and humorless, before she catches herself. “I’m sorry, mija. I know you have to live here, too. It just wasn’t my finest hour, or my happiest.”

“I know that feeling,” Veronica says. She looks down at her hands twisting together in her lap. A show of vulnerability, not entirely contrived. Better to lie low in Riverdale than New York, at least for the time being, but it’s still hard. Hard being the new girl, even if she was able to quickly establish herself pretty high on the social food chain. Hard being a famous criminal’s daughter; hard not having her dad at home. Hard accepting that her family might not ever get back to the way it used to be.

“I’m sorry you’re not happy here,” Hermione says, reaching over to tuck a lock of hair behind Veronica’s ear. “I know it’s difficult, but it might not be forever.”

“It might not be difficult forever, or we might not be here forever?” Veronica says.

“Either,” Hermione says. “Both. I don’t know where we’ll go from here, but we’ll get through. We always do.” If Veronica didn’t have any concrete goal in this conversation, she’d let herself lay her head on her mom’s shoulder, and they’d sit together quietly. Tonight isn’t that kind of night, though.

“So tell me about tall, dark, and scary. Did you used to go for bad boys?”

“FP? And _me_? God, no. He was good friends with Fred Andrews, and as soon as one of them started dating someone, she was indefinitely off-limits to the other.” Hermione picks up her wine glass. She’s aware of the dangerous territory she’s getting into, but Veronica can’t do anything about it. She asked. She wanted to know. “I remember when FP took Gladys Wilkin to senior prom. _That_ was a surprise. Almost any girl he asked would have said yes, but he picked a little sophomore.” She tilts her glass, swirling the wine around. “Can’t say she wasn’t pretty, I suppose. And it worked out well enough. I hear they got married, though I haven’t seen her around since we moved back.”

“Was he always, you know. Creepy?” Veronica says.

“No, Ronnie, he wasn’t. And even now, there are other considerations. He was out of work for a while, and it may have been the only way he could support his family.” She takes a sip of her wine and then puts the glass down again, tucking her legs under herself. “He’s trying to go straight. I don’t want you giving his son any grief about it—he’s not the only one whose father has made some poor choices.” Her posture is subdued, almost girlish, but when she looks over at Veronica, her gaze is flinty.

“I didn’t even know he had a son,” Veronica says, though the pieces are all falling into place. She wants to hear her mom say it.

“I’m sure you’ve met him. He’s as close to Archie as his father was to Fred.”

There it is. The key to this stupid bullshit mystery.

So Veronica smiles and says “of course” and “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection sooner.” Her mother smiles back, perplexed and gently suspicious. Veronica excuses herself. She has some hypothetical sources to consult.

to: Kev  
from: V  
jughead’s dad is with the serpents. did you know?

to: V  
from: Kev  
suspected, now #CONFIRMED

to: Kev  
from: V  
& jughead?

to: V  
from: Kev  
not as far as i know, lmk if he’s in trouble. i’ll help even if my dad can’t/won’t.

  
Oh, Jughead’s in trouble, that’s for sure. But any trouble he’s in with the Serpents is going to pale in comparison to the hell Veronica’s prepared to give him.


	3. What Ever Happened To Baby J?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead and Archie have a nighttime heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some familial unpleasantness in Jughead's past and brief mention of the whole Grundy situation in this part.
> 
> Regarding the location of Riverdale as mentioned here: due to the maple syrup blood feud (and my own personal bias), the implication is that it's somewhere in the northeastern United States.

Jughead doesn’t go across the street to tap on Betty’s window. He curls up on the air mattress facing the door. That way he doesn’t even have to see Archie’s window and think about what he could see ( _who_ he could see) if he went over and looked out.

Archie is observant mainly when it’s inconvenient, so (of course) he notices this.

“Hey, Jug.” Archie’s voice cuts through the stillness. “You okay?” Jughead doesn’t say anything. “Don’t even try to pretend you’re asleep. I know you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Jughead hears himself say. “I’d be better if you’d let me sleep.”

“Come on,” Archie says. Jughead can well imagine the puppy dog eyes Archie is using on him, even though Jughead’s back is turned. Archie and Betty have long since perfected their nearly-identical wide-eyed and innocent expressions. He doesn’t even have to see them for it to work. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“If I say no, will you leave me alone?” He hears Archie inhale sharply.

“Yeah,” Archie says. “Yeah, okay. If that’s what you want.” The sheets on Archie’s bed rustle. Maybe he’s turning away. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at Jughead anymore. The long-established borders of their relationship have been erased and redrawn in places Jughead doesn’t expect until he comes up against them.

Jughead slept over enough when they were little to know the exact sequence of sounds that means Archie is getting out of bed. He hears those sounds now, half asleep, and doesn’t really register it; it’s not something that his brain has been conditioned to recognize as preceding danger. So when a hand comes down on his shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Sorry,” Archie says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” Jughead hisses, turning over and sitting up to look at Archie, who’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the air mattress. Then Jughead laughs, breathless, startling himself.

“Sorry,” Archie says again. It’s so dark that Jughead almost can’t see Archie’s grin, but he’d know it from the sound of his voice either way.

“Do you need my help with something?” Jughead says. “Sneaking out to see Veronica?” No response. “Val?” Archie’s hand slides off his shoulder.

“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” Archie says. “I don’t think I’m ready, after. Everything.”

“Right,” Jughead says. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?” Archie says. “It all looks pretty confusing from over here.”

What Jughead most wants to say wouldn’t help. He wants to say _I should have told someone, even though it would have made you hate me,_ or even just _you deserve better than what happened_ , but that would only make Archie bend over backwards to excuse him. He had other stuff going on when Archie was in a bad situation, yeah, but Archie had other stuff going on and _he_ still stepped up to the plate when Jughead needed him. And then they’d be at odds again, about who should be apologizing, and that would only make things harder.

“I guess it would,” is what he says instead. And then: “So why’d you get me up, if not to help with some hare-brained scheme?”

“Ronnie asked me about you today,” Archie says. “Mostly because she thinks Betty is upset about something that has to do with you. And I can’t stop thinking about it. You guys are my best friends, and if there’s anything I can do—”

“Betty’s upset?” Jughead says.

“I didn’t see her,” Archie says. “So it might just be Veronica projecting.” It might be, but it probably isn’t. He hasn’t spent much time with Veronica, but she seems to have an eye for social dynamics. An eye for weakness, too.

“I guess I knew this would change things,” Jughead says.

“What happened?” Archie says.

“I gave Betty a book and she figured some stuff out,” Jughead says.

“What, like a self-help book?” Archie says.

“Kind of,” Jughead says. _Out of Darkness_ is more inspirational than self-help, but they’re related genres. And that’s where it started. “She found out something about me, and maybe I knew she would. Maybe I _hoped_ she would.” Better to let her decide on her own instead of driving her away later. He loves her, but this might be the best of all possible outcomes in the long run.

“What could she have found out that she doesn’t already know?” Archie says. “We all grew up together.”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” Jughead says. “These past few weeks have proved that.” Archie shifts over so he’s sitting on the air mattress, too. It wheezes ominously.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

The answer, of course, is no. But he’d rather tell Archie himself than make him hear it later from Betty. Then the problem is deciding where to start. He could go back to Woodsboro, but that’s all secondhand. He could go back to shreds of family history he heard and the gaping chasm of what his father wouldn’t talk about.

“You know how you used to want to watch movies at my house because my parents didn’t always check the ratings?” It’s easier to start with something they both remember.

“Yeah, of course,” Archie says.

“Remember the last movie we watched at my place?” Jughead says. He almost hopes the answer will be no.

“It was some horror movie, wasn’t it?” Archie says slowly. “I just remember that it was scary, and when your dad got home, he said he didn’t want us watching it.”

“Wes Craven’s 1997 classic, _Stab_ , starring Tori Spelling and Luke Wilson,” Jughead says. “A slasher based loosely on real-life murders that took place in Woodsboro, California, the previous year. Or based on a book about the murders, technically.”

“Oh,” Archie says, sounding like he’s come to some kind of understanding, though he can’t possibly have drawn the right conclusion. He doesn’t have all the information yet. “So was it because the movie was based on real events that he didn’t want us knowing about?”

“Yes,” Jughead says. “Sort of.” His confidence is faltering. Mainly because he doesn’t hear any distinct emotion in Archie’s voice, aside from curiosity. If Archie can talk about it now without hesitating—if he wasn’t afraid then—maybe it didn’t happen the way he remembers it. In Jughead’s mind, that evening sticks out.

Cut to: him and Archie on the couch, in the little house his family had before they moved to the trailer. The house with the treehouse out back and a bathroom with a bathtub instead of a cramped shower. He was still eight, a few weeks out from his birthday. Archie was nine already. Mom was in the kitchen making dinner for the family plus Archie, who had come over to work on a project. They’d done their work for the day and Archie had brought a DVD. An _R-rated_ DVD: the rarest kind of contraband. They put it on and turned the volume almost all the way down in case anybody in the movie started screaming. It started with a girl on the phone. (In hindsight, he knows this was Heather Graham, of _Twin Peaks_ fame, playing a character based on Casey Becker, the third known victim. At the time, though, she was just a pretty girl making popcorn alone in a house.)

The only bloody part they saw was a quick shot of a boy who had been cut open. Archie squeaked and covered his eyes until Jughead elbowed him and told him it was over. He didn’t pay attention to the sound of the front door opening. He was straining to hear the dialogue. There was a person in a mask, now, wearing black and chasing the girl. He didn’t really understand what was going on, but he wanted to know.

It would be years before he found out what came next in the movie. His dad was suddenly in the doorway, white-faced with fury.

“What the hell are you kids watching?” he said. Though he knew already: that much was clear. Archie clapped his hands over his mouth at the sound of the word ‘hell,’ as though he’d been the one to say a bad word. “Who brought this garbage into the house?” His dad crossed the room in a few strides, seeming bigger than he ever had before, even when Jughead was little. He smacked the eject button on the DVD player. He turned around, DVD in hand. “Where did you get this?”

Jughead knew immediately that he couldn’t let Archie say he had brought it. Archie would be exiled for life, never allowed back into the Jones household. That would be worse than whatever his dad might do to him. (He had rarely thought of punishment in those terms. His experience with it was limited to less active forms: being grounded, being sent to his room, not being allowed to watch TV. But with his dad looming, moving like he was squaring up for a fight—other things seemed possible.)

“The rental place,” Jughead said. “They were throwing it out because it had a scratch on it. I didn’t know what the movie was. I didn’t know it was _bad_.”

“Jesus Christ,” his dad said, some of the anger draining away to be replaced by exasperation. The promise of violence in the taut lines of his body became more distant: a possibility instead of a certainty. “Of course you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Archie piped up, even though Jughead had made sure he had no reason to apologize.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo. But I don’t want you kids watching this movie,” his dad said. “Not now, not ever.” Archie nodded, wide-eyed and earnest. Jughead nodded too, trying to look ashamed. Even if he failed at that, he knew he’d at least look scared, which was close enough.

Then they ate dinner like nothing had happened. A couple of weeks down the line, Archie saved up enough allowance to replace the DVD. He gave the money to Moose’s big sister, who it had belonged to. Life went on.

Except Jughead hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. The lure of the forbidden was irresistible. The movie was off-limits, but books never were. He went to the public library and hid in the nonfiction stacks in the adult department, surrounded by books by Ann Rule and Vincent Bugliosi and Janet Malcolm. And, most importantly, Gale Weathers. He tore page eighteen out of the library copy of _The Woodsboro Murders_ and folded it in half, hid it behind math worksheets in his school folder. The young man in the photo (one of the murderers, supposedly the mastermind) looked a lot like his dad. He didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something.

His mom gave him the answer without realizing. She sometimes liked to look at old photos from when she and his dad were younger. (He thinks now that he should have known then: her fixation on the past was a sign. Trouble in paradise.) One photo she liked to linger over showed his dad, laughing, looking back over his shoulder as he scaled a dune at a beach.

“Did you take that?” Jughead asked. He had helped her with the dishes and then hung around afterward, finding excuses not to finish his homework.

“This? No, this is from California,” his mom said. “I’ve never been to the West Coast. Your dad used to go every summer. He has—had—family out there.”

Jughead caught the correction. “Did they move?” He hadn’t met his dad’s family. It would make sense of they lived too far away for the whole family to visit.

“Some bad things happened, honey,” his mom said, sighing around the words. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.” There were empty spaces in the album. Pictures that were missing. Pictures that had been removed. California, Woodsboro, dad’s family. Jughead could never resist a puzzle. He thought he had all the pieces. He just needed to figure out how to fit them together.

In the dark, sitting on the air mattress, Jughead sketches a rough outline of these events for Archie. It doesn’t sound like much: a  few tenuous connections and budding suspicions. It seems increasingly unlikely that he can make Archie understand—that he can make anyone understand. (Except Betty, who already does. Who understood without being told.)

“So how’d you confirm it?” Archie says.

“I found a picture of both of them,” Jughead says. He can hear his voice getting hoarser. The strain of talking for a half hour, maybe, or feelings he’s not ready to process. Jughead’s storytelling strength lies in narrative, not emotion. “My dad and his cousin. Billy Loomis. William Edward Loomis, in all the more recent books and documentaries—they do that, with serial killers. Add in the middle name. So no other poor sucker who happens to be named William Loomis gets mobbed in the grocery store by well-meaning vigilantes, I guess, though in cases where the killer’s been dead for two decades… It seems like a moot point.”

“Did you ever talk to your dad about it?” Archie says. He says it like it’s a real possibility, which is baffling. His frame of reference is Fred Andrews, though, so maybe it’s not such a strange response. Whether or not Archie’s dad is a good partner or boss (or friend), he does his best for his son. For Archie, the idea of a father is something solid. Bedrock, not quicksand.

“No,” Jughead says.

“So the book you gave Betty…” Archie muses, puzzling it out. “That wouldn’t be the book the movie was based on, would it?”

“No, it was a book by one of the survivors,” Jughead says. “My dad’s cousin’s girlfriend.”

“He tried to kill his _girlfriend_?” Archie says, horrified.

“There’s always some stupid bullshit reason to kill your girlfriend,” Jughead says. He explains before Archie can respond: “It’s a line from _Stab_. I’ve seen that movie maybe a dozen times now.”

“That’s awful,” Archie says. He means it. And god, Jughead has missed this: good-hearted Archie, nevertheless inclined to take his side or at least hear him out, even though he’s a prematurely hardened cynic. Archie, understanding him as naturally as Betty does. The old familiar push-and-pull balance between all three of them has shifted, turned gravitational. It’s not the right time or place to think too hard about that.

“Yeah,” Jughead says. “There’s a lot of misogyny in horror. Art imitating life.”

“What kind of book did she write, the girl who survived?” Archie says.

“A good one,” Jughead says. “Better than you’d think. Sidney Prescott has lived an extremely unlucky life. She survived multiple attempts on her life—not just by Billy, but by other people later on. It’s like he painted a target on her back. She kind of fell off the face of the earth for a while. Can’t blame her for that. But she did come back to society and wrote a book about, um.” He has to think about how to describe it. “Her experiences dealing with trauma, I guess. How to work around things, and move forward, without trying to pretend that nothing ever happened.”

“Sounds like a book that a lot of people around here could stand to read,” Archie says.

“That’s why I gave Betty my copy,” Jughead says. There’s a story there, too: the copy he could never bring himself to get rid of, even as his earthly possessions were pared down to what he could carry with him. In the dark, it feels safe to tell that story, but he decides to wait. He doesn’t want to just tell Archie. He wants to tell Betty, as a kind of peace offering. Something small and raw and real. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to tell the story twice. Instead, he leans forward slowly, until his forehead is resting on the edge of Archie’s shoulder. It’s an awkward position, but he can only stand the barest minimum of physical contact right now. “Thanks for letting me talk about this.”

“Anytime, Jug,” Archie says, sounding faintly puzzled.

  
“I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow,” Jughead promises. As if it could ever be that easy.


	4. Strangers Beside Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small confrontation and something like a truce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more familial unpleasantness as recounted by Jughead.

Betty knows from the moment she sees Veronica that Veronica is out for blood. She’s seen this before. _Full Dark, No Stars_. Righteous anger. She doesn’t know who it’s directed at, though—not right away. She’s been so wrapped up in her own family drama that she barely knows what’s been going on with Veronica.

“Hey,” Betty says, cautious. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Veronica says. She’s wire-tense. “By the by, let me know if you run into your boytoy. There’s a little conversation I want to have with him.” So that’s one question answered, but it raises a whole host of others. “And you know what? I think you should be there, too.”

At that moment, with the worst possible timing, she sees Archie and Jughead appear at the end of the hall behind Veronica. Betty needs to assess the situation before letting this confrontation happen, whatever it might be. Archie and Jughead aren’t looking that them yet. Betty still has time to make sure they don’t. Not until she’s ready. So she takes Veronica’s arm—softly, tenderly, the way that will get Veronica’s attention. (The way she always wants to; the way Veronica does to her without thinking about it.) She steers Veronica around the corner with a hand tucked into the crook of her elbow.

“Did he say something to upset you?” Betty says. Veronica turns sharply to look at her.

“Upset _me_?” she says. Incredulous, dismissive, and still furious. “This isn’t about me.”

“Who’s it about, then?” Betty says.

“Don’t play dumb, B. It doesn’t suit you,” Veronica snaps. She tugs her arm out of Betty’s grasp. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice that something was up?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” Betty says. She bites her lip, not sure how best to explain. “But I can’t tell you everything. It’s not mine to tell.”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me _anything_ ,” Veronica says. “I may not be on your level, but I can handle a little bit of sleuthing, thank you very much.”

“I know you can,” Betty says. “I just… it’s hard for him. And the more people know, the harder it is.” She doesn’t know how much Veronica knows; she’s trying to smooth things over without letting anything slip.

“And what about the people who might be in danger?” Veronica says. “What about _you_?” Betty just shakes her head. If she’s in any danger, it’s not because of Jughead. “You don’t see it now, but you will,” Veronica says grimly. “We’ll talk later.” There’s a little less energy to her stride as she walks away, but no less determination. A cooler head will only make her plans more concrete. Betty still isn’t sure exactly what’s looming on the horizon.

In an ideal world, she’d be able to give Jughead some kind of heads up, but if the past few weeks have proved anything, it’s that the world is far from ideal. Archie finds her in the hall between third and fourth period before she can find Jughead.

“Betty, do you think we could meet somewhere private during lunch?” he says. He leans in close, too unaware of his own size to loom or crowd her. He gets close like he used to. Before everything. It’s still nice.

“I was kind of hoping to talk to Jughead,” she admits.

“I think he’s hoping to talk to you, too,” he says. “Or—to both of us, I guess. We talked a little bit last night about the whole… thing.” His eyes beg her to understand, but she’s not sure they’re on the same page, just like she wasn’t sure exactly what Veronica knows.

“The whole thing,” Betty repeats. Archie’s eyebrows communicate his anguish as his mouth twists, silent. “Do you mean the Woodsboro thing?” she says, lowering her voice. He nods. “Okay. Let’s meet in the Blue & Gold office.” Calling it an office is maybe gilding the lily a little bit. But it sounds official, which makes the whole situation feel more under control.

She spends fourth period dodging and ignoring concerned looks from Kevin during AP World History. It’s the first AP class she’s ever taken. She has a good excuse for focusing on her notes.

By the time the bell rings, she’s crawling out of her skin. The impending meeting has her on edge just thinking about it: her and Archie and Juggie, reuniting, conspiratorial. There’s a heavy knot sitting under her ribs. Dread. Because as much as the three of them stealing moments together is something that’s been a part of her life for almost as long as she can remember, things have changed (are still changing). It’s not about planning to pull a prank to get back at Reggie, or getting their story straight about having a group project so they can sneak off to Pop’s or the drive-in. It’s about secrets. Old ones and new ones. She doesn’t know how the three of them are supposed to fit together anymore. She’s starting to doubt if they ever really did.

They meet outside the room and nod at each other. They’ve all decided not to talk until they’re inside with the door shut behind them. Nobody has to say it. Some shred of their old understanding is still in evidence.

Alone together, and safe, Jughead is the first to speak. “I’m sorry for running off the way I did,” he says.

“Is that all you’re sorry for?”

They all turn. Veronica is sitting in the corner. Even though she was here first, she’s engineered a kind of dramatic entrance.

“You’re not sorry, for instance, that your dad threatened my mom?” she says. “That dating a gang member’s son might put your girlfriend in danger? That living with your best friend might make him a target?”

“Jug, what’s she talking about?” Archie says, low and urgent. Veronica hears anyway.

“I’m talking about the fact that his dad’s a Southside Serpent. Pretty high up the food chain, from what I hear.” Veronica stands. The move is elegant, planned, like the rest of this encounter. “So? Anything to say about _that_?”

“He’s trying to go straight,” Jughead says. He suddenly sounds exhausted. “I don’t know if he’ll actually do it, but I know he meant it at the time.”

“Your dad’s a Serpent?” Archie says. He doesn’t seem to have heard Jughead. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Jughead says. Archie flinches back when Jughead raises his voice, startled. Betty isn’t afraid he’s going to run this time. As determined as Veronica is, Jughead can match it. “I’d barely seen him in months. And what good would it have done?”

“I have to tell my dad,” Archie says. “You know I do.”

“So he can do what? Fire my dad and throw away the last, best chance I have of ever seeing my family together again? You’re a real pal,” Jughead says, suddenly vicious.

“If he’s putting you in danger—if he was putting your mom and your sister in danger—he’s not even your family anymore,” Archie says. He’s sure of his moral compass even when he second-guesses himself constantly, which is sometimes endearing. Now isn’t one of those times.

“You don’t know a damn thing about my family,” Jughead says. His jaw is tight. “You never did. You were there, but you didn’t see any of it, and I shouldn’t have expected you to.”

“Did you know?” Veronica is asking her, as the boys argue themselves back to silence.

“I guessed,” Betty says. “It didn’t seem like the most important thing.”

“I didn’t know,” Jughead says to Veronica, without looking at her, “about your mom. Whatever he did—we weren’t really talking up until a few days ago. Hadn’t been talking for months.” Veronica doesn’t seem mollified by the admission.

“What could be more important than this?” Veronica says. She tosses her hair and gestures shortly to the room. To the four of them, and the messy tangle between them.

“Woodsboro,” Betty says. All the air seems to go out of the room.

“That was what I wanted to talk to you about,” Jughead says after a long breathless moment. “How I got the book, and why.”

“What are you talking about?” Veronica says, frustrated.

“This isn’t for you,” Jughead says. “None of this was for you. You weren’t invited.” He looks over at her, finally, and she sees something in his gaze that makes her go still and quiet. “But you might as well stay.” He looks between Betty and Archie. “Do you guys remember when I ran away?”

* * *

Technically, he ran away twice, but the first time was the middle of the night, and since he was home by morning, nobody outside of the south side heard about it.

The first time was impulsive. He wasn’t going anywhere. He just needed to get _out_.

Here’s the thing that’s hard to explain to people: Jughead’s dad didn’t ever hit him or his mom or his sister. He never threatened them outright. But he was forceful in a way that increasingly made it seem like those things could be right around the corner. He interrupted conversations, talked over other people, never found room or reason for gentleness. It probably served him well everywhere else in his life. On construction sites, drinking with his buddies, it was fine, because everyone there was like that. But at home, with a wife who was always tired and sometimes sick, with two kids just learning how the world worked—there should have been a difference. And he didn’t see that.

So it’s also hard for Jughead to explain to people why he ran away the first time. Just saying the sequence of events makes it sound irrational, and maybe it was.

It was late, by nine-year-old standards. Almost ten at night. He was awake because he was worrying about a presentation he had to do the next day. He got up and went to get a glass of water, mostly for an excuse to do something other than stare at his ceiling and imagine all the ways tomorrow could go wrong.

Jughead didn’t make it all the way to the kitchen. He stopped before he even got to the doorway. His dad had his hands on his mom’s shoulders, and he was shaking her. Only briefly, and not very hard, but the sight stopped him in his tracks. Maybe it only seemed so dire and so frightening because Jughead was already uneasy, or maybe it was the fact that the incident with the _Stab_ DVD was only about a month before that night, and he’d been looking for more evidence of what he’d seen since then. Maybe it was the low menacing hiss of his dad’s voice, saying “god _damn_ it, Gladys, get a hold of yourself” that turned the scene into something out of a nightmare. Or maybe he’s just making excuses in retrospect. Maybe it was as bad as it seemed.

Jughead knew he had to leave. He had to get away.

He was halfway to the front door before his plan shifted. He could leave his mom, because she was a grown-up, and she’d figure something out. He couldn’t leave Jellybean. And anyway, it was mid-October. It would be chilly outside. He slipped back into his room, put on his coat and shoes, and grabbed the blanket from his bed. He put this on top of Jellybean’s bed, and scooped her up, swaddled in both her blanket and his.

She blinked sleepily up at him. “Is the house on fire?” she said. She didn’t seem too concerned about the possibility.

“We’re just going for a walk,” he said. She frowned. “Well, _I’m_ going for a walk, and you’re coming. I’ll carry you.” She opened her mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say, still fighting her way to wakefulness. “Come on, Jellybean, don’t be a yelly-bean,” he said, and that made her giggle. She made a little whining, complaining sound when he had to put her down to open the front door, but not loud enough for anyone to hear. She was back asleep by the time they were halfway down the block.

He made it three blocks before admitting defeat. He was still buzzing with directionless adrenaline, but Jellybean seemed to get heavier and heavier. He knew he could carry her further than this (knew she wasn’t really that heavy; under both the average height and weight for her age group). But that had been piggy-back, and waking her back up to shift positions would be disastrous. She’d probably start to cry, caught off-guard by the wide cold dark of the outdoors, and then someone might come and find them. So he sat down on the curb and held his sister tight and waited to regain his strength. The longer he sat, though, the more tired and hopeless he felt. He didn’t know where he could go that was close enough to walk to. So he kept sitting there.

Later, he’d find out that it had been close to three hours. Near one in the morning, the beam of a flashlight came bouncing down the street until it came to rest on him. He squinted, shielding his eyes with one hand and angling himself away, so the light wouldn’t wake up Jellybean.

“Oh, honey,” his mom’s voice came out of the darkness, high and tearful. “What happened?” He just shook his head. She knew what happened. She was there. She clicked the flashlight off and sat on the curb next to him. Venetian blinds were opening in some of the houses around them, but Jughead was pretty sure nobody was going to come out and bother them. This was clearly family business, and for better or for worse, most people on the south side didn’t see fit to interfere with that.

“We were so worried,” she said, turning to kiss the top of his head.

“Is he mad?” Jughead said, and hated his voice for sounding as strained as his mom’s.

“No, baby, your daddy’s not mad,” she said.

“Not mad at _me_ , or not mad?” he said. She didn’t say anything, which seemed like its own kind of answer.

His mom kept him home from school the next day. She called and said he was sick, then she called her job and said she was staying home to look after him. (She’d lose that job in another few months for missing so much work, but most of the days she’d missed had been because she was really and truly sick.) He had an extra day to work on his presentation, and she helped him memorize it with flashcards.

The second time he ran away, a little less than a year later, is the one people know about because the police were called. He was gone for sixteen hours. It was a Saturday, and both his parents had to work early. He was in charge of watching Jellybean until his mom got home after lunch. He didn’t. As soon as they were both gone, he took Jellybean over to Ms. Doiley’s house. Ms. Doiley lived a street away and used to watch him and Jellybean when they were both too little to be alone. Sometimes her nephew would be there to play with them, but he wasn’t there today. Jughead knew what to say: he called her ma’am and apologized for the short notice. Jellybean had already been bribed for her silence with the promise of getting to eat his chocolate pudding (her favorite) the next time they had it for dessert.

The bus station was within walking distance. He got on a Greyhound by standing close enough behind a woman with dark hair who looked about his mom’s age that people assumed they were together. She didn’t notice him. People getting on a bus in the early morning tend not to notice things. He slept most of the ride down to New York City. He had printed a map off the internet at the library, and followed the route he’d picked out in yellow highlighter. He jumped a turnstile on the subway, got to Union Square, and found the Barnes & Noble. He had exactly enough money to buy a copy of _Out of Darkness_. No money for bus or metro fares.

The store was packed. He wasn’t deterred.

Jughead waited on line for four hours to get his book signed by Sidney Prescott. The closer he got to the table where she was sitting, the more nervous he got. He was afraid she’d recognize something in him, some trace of the first man who’d tried to kill her. But she didn’t. She just smiled in a tired way and signed the title page. He didn’t ask to have it inscribed.

He got back to the bus station the same way he came, but ran into trouble getting on a bus home. The station in New York was bigger, and people paid more attention. A guard took him to the customer service desk. He called his house.

A man with an unfamiliar voice picked up the phone. (He’d find out later that this was one of the deputies.) He asked to talk to his mom, and the man hesitated, but put her on.

“Forsythe? Is that you?” His mom never called him that, not even when he was in trouble.

“It’s Jughead, mom,” he said. She made a stifled sound—a gasp, or a sob, or both.

“Where are you, honey?” she said. And then, after a beat, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Did something happen? Is Jellybean okay?” The man at the customer service desk was getting impatient, but he could wait another minute or two.

“She’s just fine. Ms. Doiley called me at work, because…” his mom’s voice hitched again. “We just didn’t know where you were, honey.” She corrected herself: “We don’t know where you are.”

“I went down to New York,” he said. His mom laughed breathlessly. “But I lost my ticket back.” He wouldn’t admit that he meant to sneak on. More than leaving, he thought she’d be ashamed of that. “I’m so sorry, mom. They won’t let me on the bus.”

“Let me talk to them,” she said. The wobble had gone out of her voice. Jughead handed the phone to the man at the desk and watched his pinched expression flatten out into cowed submission. He got on a bus home without any more hassle. His dad was waiting at the station for him. Of course it was his dad; his mom would want to stay with Jellybean until both her children were back home.

His dad didn’t say anything until they were in the car, with the doors shut and the engine running.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” his dad said. Stone-cold sober, steady as a rock, and angry.

“I wanted to see if I could get there by myself,” Jughead said.

“We were worried sick, you know that?” his dad said. “Your mom called the sheriff. Half the neighborhood was out looking for you.” Both of them were worried, only his mom called the police. And only south side folks would give a damn about looking for a south side kid. The picture forming in his head made sense. “They thought somebody had taken you.” _They_ , not _we_. His dad knew he’d gone on his own.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You damn well better be,” his dad said, and put the car in gear.

He never asked what Jughead did in the city. The police did, and his mom did, and Jellybean did, and the told them an edited version of the truth. He got on the subway, went to Union Square because it had a name he’d heard in movies, walked around, came home. He wasn’t hurt, so no one looked in his backpack. No one found the book. The book lived in his backpack for years, hidden under school books and notebooks and folders. That was the surest way it wouldn’t be left anywhere for someone else to find.

And now it lives with Betty, for however long she wants or needs it.

* * *

This isn’t how Veronica thought it would go. Jughead, talking about a childhood she wasn’t part of; Betty, damp-eyed and understanding; Archie, looking heartbreakingly lost. And Veronica on the outside looking in. Betty hugs Jughead and his eyes close, breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. Archie hesitates before joining the hug. When Jughead opens his eyes, though, he looks over at Veronica. The same dead-eyed stare he’d hit her with when he said she could stay.

She leaves before anyone can say anything, feeling like a voyeur.

Kevin catches her in the hallway as the bell rings. “How’s, you know.” He gestures vaguely. “Everything. Is everybody okay?”

“No, Kevin, everything isn’t okay,” she says. “But it’s none of my business.” She starts to walk past him, but he turns on his heel and keeps pace with her easily. Damn his long legs.

“Whoa, whoa. That does _not_ sound like you,” he says.

“Don’t stick your nose in a scandal,” she says. “It’ll ruin your chances at a political career.” Her knees are feeling less wobbly. The whole thing seems smaller now that she’s not in the room with all that history anymore.

“Yeah, well, I’ll live,” he says. “What’s up, seriously? You guys are my friends.”

“Family drama,” she says. “Not my family, and since no one’s asking for my help? Not my problem.”

“Uh-huh, okay,” Kevin says, clearly not buying it. “Well, if that changes, try to keep me in the loop.”

“I’ll call you when you’re senator,” she says, forcing a smile. He winks and dashes back in the opposite direction. He’s known them longer anyway. If any of them wants to tell Kevin, he’ll find out from them.

That’s what makes Veronica feel so weird about the whole thing: she wasn’t supposed to be there, and the only reason she got to stay is because of the leverage she exercised without thinking about how much damage it could do. (She sees the three of them huddled by Betty’s locker after school, before cheer and football practice. They probably don’t want Jughead to have to be alone right now. She keeps walking.)

This time she’s the one who’s off her game at practice, and Cheryl gives her hell for it. Veronica doesn’t sit back and take it—that’s not who she is. But she doesn’t leave any openings for Betty to come to her defense, either. She doesn’t want to find out if things have changed that much.

(She thinks: this is it. I’ve been exiled, and they did it by letting me get close. Why didn’t I think of that?)

Veronica doesn’t hang around, doesn’t make plans with anyone. She could, of course. Betty’s not her only friend. (Just her _best_ friend, the person she’s closest to in the world right now.) She takes a shower, gets changed, and heads out on her own. She decides not to go straight home, which would mean hanging out with Polly, who’s nice but is Betty’s sister, and right now that’s enough to qualify for a hard pass. Veronica settles on homework and a milkshake, ruining her appetite for dinner but otherwise playing by the rules. She just wants a little time on her own.

But as the poet said, you can’t always get what you want. Jughead slides into the booth across from her without asking permission or saying hello. Veronica glances up at him and then back down at her trigonometry.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” she says.

“I’ve never seen anyone order gin here, but there’s a first time for everything,” he says. Then, before she can respond, he goes on. “I’ve seen _Casablanca_. You don’t have to explain the reference.”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “You worked at a drive-in. I’d be more surprised if you hadn’t seen it.”

They sit in silence as Veronica works her way through two problems. Jughead cracks first.

“What are you going to do?” he says.

“What do you mean?” she says.

“I mean you’ve got all the cards,” he says. “I fold. But I’d like to be able to brace myself for whatever’s coming.”

Veronica puts down her pencil, closes her eyes, and counts to ten. When she opens her eyes, she’s ready to do something other than tearfully scream ‘what kind of monster do you think I am,’ which was her first impulse. Instead, she says, “What makes you think I’m going to do anything?”

“I just find it hard to believe that you’re going to sit on a wealth of information that could ruin my life,” he says evenly. “Since you pretty clearly don’t like me.”

“I didn’t like that it seemed like you were putting my friends in danger,” she says. “Now I know you’re not.” He seems unconvinced. She pushes her milkshake across the table at him so he’ll be distracted when she unveils her real peace offering. “My dad’s the one who bought the drive-in. He hired your dad—or his friends, cohorts, whatever—to make it undesirable real estate. So I’m not going to cast any more aspersions.”

Jughead keeps it together remarkably well. “That’s enough information for mutually assured destruction,” he says coolly.

“That’s the idea,” she agrees. “Do you trust me now?” He considers this.

“Trust would be a strong word,” he says. “But I’m less worried about an imminent arrest.”

“Yeah, well,” Veronica says, pulling the milkshake (now half-empty) back to her side of the table. “I’m not going to drive off the only other person around with good taste in true crime.” He smiles wryly. “By the way, you should absolutely write in to _My Favorite Murder_ about your Woodsboro connection. I bet Karen would flip.”

“Quite frankly, I think we’ve got a more pressing hometown murder on our hands,” he says. He folds his hands in front of him on the formica and leans forward. “Speaking of which, I have to ask about how you found out what you did.”

“I’ll never reveal my sources, Mr. Jones,” she says, and flips her hair back dramatically over one shoulder. His smile this time is just shy of a grin. She sees a flash of teeth.

“We’ll see,” he says. Veronica thinks they’ll be picking at each other like this for the next two years at least, but she likes the idea. She’d rather have a sparring partner than a yes-man.

  
“So tell me about your novel,” she says. And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to write about Skeet Ulrich's latest skeevy dude character being related to his most iconic skeevy dude character in _Scream_.


End file.
